by David Waters
“I had a good friend,” Hendricks continued, “who had been a school-mate back in Scotland. We had kept in touch over the years. I had always suspected he was with British Intelligence, although he would surely have denied it had I asked him. One afternoon, I was drunk, and I phoned him. I asked him if he had the kind of contacts which would enable him to check whether Gooden had ever worked undercover for the RCMP. He just laughed, joked about the dangers of paranoia and changed the topic. But two days later there was a message on my answering machine. I remember the words very well. Urgent. Do not discuss with anyone what you called about the other night. I phoned him the next day and said I would never mention the subject again. He seemed pleased. We made arrangements to meet that summer. But we never did. Maybe I was wise to keep silent all those years. But then who knows? Silence has its own price. I knew it has somehow diminished me as a person.”
“This student,” Ryan said, “I presume he can no longer be contacted?”
“I don’t know.” Hendricks was visibly annoyed by Ryan’s question. “Possibly. I believe he’s now working in California.”
“Your friend in British Intelligence, he’s not likely to back your story is he?” Ryan’s tone was growing steadily aggressive. I stared at him.
“I doubt it.” Hendricks gave a bitter laugh. “Why should he? Why would he violate the British Secrets Act for something that’s of no interest to his government?”
I found it hard to believe, given the shotgun that Hendricks held in his lap, that Ryan would dare to proceed with his initial plan to harass Hendricks into some kind of self-incriminating outburst. But that seemed to be his intention. I tried to figure out what role I should play, and just how to do it.
Hendricks turned to Mary. “I’ve tried to answer the question you came here to ask me. But I have no intention whatsoever,” and he turned to glare at Ryan, “of being grilled and bullied by an ex-cop even if he’s your friend.” He turned back to Mary. “If you have no further questions for me, I’d appreciate it if you would leave. I’m very tired. I didn’t sleep very well last night.”
“Harold, did you try to kill my daughter?” Her voice was surprisingly soft.
He flinched. I froze. I’m sure my heart skipped a beat. But I think he was quick to realize that her question had been phrased very carefully and without any anger or distrust. She was not asking him whether he had fired the shot at the motel, but about his motive if he had. Like Mary and everyone else, I watched his eyes. But I could not see them as directly as Mary. His voice when he spoke seemed to come from a distance and it contained a subtle almost plaintive, undercurrent to it. And his answer too had been very carefully phrased. “No, Mary, I have never tried to kill anyone, certainly not Gina, nor Naomi, not even Michael.”
Mary nodded. She did not ask the next obvious question: whether he had tried to fire a warning shot which had accidentally wounded Linda. I was waiting for Ryan to take up the questioning, but he was strangely silent. He was staring at the gun cabinet. It’s door was slightly ajar. Something about it puzzled me, and then I realized what it was. Hendricks had obviously taken the shotgun from it. Hence there should now have been two empty spaces. The one for the shotgun, and the one for the .22 caliber rifle. But there was only one empty space. Hendricks saw my puzzled look. He smiled vacantly like an indifferent poker player down to his last hand but who still had one hidden card he could put into play. He rose carefully from his chair and moved to the gun cabinet. He glanced at the scotch bottle and half-empty glass on the mantel piece above the unlit fireplace. Then he shrugged, as if what he was about to say hardly mattered.
“I have a .22 caliber rifle here.” He removed it from the cabinet. He held it towards me. He was still holding the shotgun as well. He spoke quietly. He seemed to be studying my face, trying to anticipate my reaction. “You told me the other day that it was a .22 caliber rifle which fired the shot outside the motel. Why don’t you take this one, have it checked out?” His eyes beneath his unusually broad forehead remained fixed on my face. He was still holding the rifle out to me. I took it. “Now get out, all of you!” I was surprised by the strange mixture of anger and futility in his voice. To my left, Mary rose slowly from her chair. And then Gina got up too. After a moment’s hesitation, I rose as well. Mary started for the door.
“I believe you, Harold.” She said quietly to him.
He gave a slight nod as if it hardly mattered. But he did not look at her. Finally, with a sigh, Phil got up as well. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that he was frowning, and I could tell from the set of his lips that he did not like the way things had turned out. I think that if he and I had been alone, he would have refused to leave and would have pressured Hendricks until we were either ordered out at the point of a gun, or until he had obtained something, anything, that he could take back with him as tangible evidence of Hendricks’ guilt. Reluctantly, Phil followed Gina towards the door. With a nod to Hendricks I followed too. As I stepped through the door, I realized how farcical I must have looked to the others. The rifle I clutched in my hand could hardly be the same one that had been used outside the motel last Sunday.
Mary was already at the van. Gina and Phil were half-way there. I had just descended the steps.
“Webster.”
I half turned and looked back over my shoulder. From his position in the open doorway, Hendricks stared at me with the sad look of a dog who had been deceived by someone he had hoped to trust.
The others stood in a group next to the van listening.
“You took that rifle.”
I glanced down at it. My mouth closed in a grim line.
“You know better don’t you?” He stared at me and at the rifle which I held as if I possessed some precious piece of evidence. “That rifle is useless to you. A neighbor told me this morning,” he went on, “that two men yesterday removed something from the grounds behind my cottage. You and I know what that was.” His lower lip seemed to tremble on that large proud head. “The truth, Webster, pursue the truth, and don’t stop until you get it.”
I half-opened my mouth, but I could not think of anything to say.
Without another word he stepped back and closed the door. I heard him lock it from inside.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“What are we going to do with this thing?”
I was referring to the rifle which I held upright between my knees. As far as I knew it would be illegal to transport it across the border without making some kind of declaration. But what kind?
Ryan pulled to the side of the road. “Here, let me store it in the back. The son-of-bitch has probably called ahead to let the customs know that there’s a van about to cross the border with an unregistered rifle.”
I followed Ryan around to the back of the van.
“So why don’t we just get rid of it?”
“What if it’s really the bloody rifle he used at the motel?”
“But how could that be?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him to have planted an old rifle barrel behind his cottage as a decoy.” Phil snorted.
“That doesn’t make sense.” I said.
“Maybe he spotted that we were following him.”
“But if this were the real rifle why would he offer it to me?”
“Maybe he was just trying to bluff you. Obviously he knew we’d retrieved the barrel in the woods yesterday. Maybe he assumed you would refuse to take this one with you. Then where would we have been? We would have been left with a useless old gun barrel that the police could not match to the bullet. He could then have destroyed this one, and claimed that he had offered it to us in good faith. No evidence, no case. Checkmate! I tell you this guy’s a tricky one. He always seems to be two or three steps ahead of us. No, you did the right thing. The smart move was to take this rifle and say nothing.”
“I don’t buy it,” I said. It was a highly unlikely scenario and far too complicated and I was sure Ryan knew it.
“And I don’t
think you do either.”
“Nah. Not really.” Ryan grinned. “Actually what I really think is that he may have driven into town yesterday and purchased this rifle to replace the one he’d buried.”
“And why would he do that?”
“Because at that time he probably didn’t expect anyone to locate the one he had buried. But he could expect that the police might try to get a warrant for any .22 caliber rifle he had in his gun cabinet. And so he buys one and places it there. They seize it and find that it doesn’t match. And he’s off the hook. I mean look at this thing! The barrel looks new, but the stock is old enough to have been the one he used at the motel. Maybe we can trace it. Find out where he bought it. It would be another bit of supportive evidence. That’s what I was really thinking when he offered it to you. So, we had everything to gain and nothing to lose by taking it and getting out of there before he changed his mind.”
Phil leaned forward to remove a large carry-all from the back of the van. I got a glimpse of a leather holster.
“Hendricks was right.” I muttered, “you were carrying a revolver.”
“I’ve never questioned a potential murderer on his own turf before without one. But I didn’t count on the shot gun.”
Although we had been speaking in low tones, I was sure Mary and Gina had heard most of our exchange through the wide-open back door of the van.
“Surely, you weren’t planning to take him back across the border?” I muttered.
“Of course not. You know what the charge is for abduction? But it proves how afraid Hendricks is of being brought to a police station for questioning.”
Ryan had taken some tools out of the carry-all, and while he spoke, he had been busy dismantling the barrel from the stock. Both pieces now fitted easily into the container. He put the tools back in and locked the carry-all with a grunt of satisfaction.
“What do we do when we get to the border? What do we say?”
“Nothing.”
“And what if they check the car?”
He shrugged and looked at me as if he was dealing with someone unfamiliar with the ways of the world. “Then we let them impound it, if they want to.” He grinned. “And I call Ricci or Leclair to bail us out of the mess we’ll be in.” He slammed shut the back door of the van. As we clambered back in, Gina said, “So we’re taking the rifle back across the border with us?” Ryan nodded.
“The rest of you don’t need to worry,” he said, “after all, it’s my van. So I’m the one who’ll have the problem.” I didn’t like it. But I gritted my teeth. I could think of no alternative plan to offer. We drove for a few miles in a tense silence.
“Phil,” Mary said, “I probably know Harold better than any of you, and personally I believe he was telling us the truth this afternoon.” Gina nodded.
“Maybe.” Ryan acknowledged. “But I’ve seen too many criminals who were great actors until you finally get the goods on them. They’re like politicians. They’ve had years of practice at lying.”
“Phil,” Mary said, “Hendricks doesn’t fit either of those categories, and you darn well know it.”
He looked at her. He smiled and sighed, “yeah. Still, it’s better to play safe. I’ll get this rifle to Ricci just in case.”
We slipped past customs without difficulty. A young female officer asked only the usual routine questions. Ryan did the only talking. For the rest of the journey we kept to our own thoughts. Ryan dropped us off at my place. He said he would get the rifle to Lieutenant Ricci, and call Leclair to report on what Hendricks had said.
I was left alone for the rest of the afternoon. Mary and Gina decided to visit Linda who was now out of the hospital. I checked my answering machine. I was surprised to find there was a message from Leclair asking me to call him. I tried but was unsuccessful. When Gina and Mary returned Gina seemed pleased with herself. “I’ve persuaded Linda to go back to university as a mature student.” She said.
We ordered in some Chinese food for supper. None of us felt like talking much, so we piled food on our plates and took them into the living room where we periodically flipped through the channels looking for something worthwhile. Gina finally found a movie to watch. Mary decided instead to go upstairs and soak in a bath. Eventually I headed upstairs to the den to go through the pile of mail which had accumulated during the past week. Most of it was junk mail, but I wrote checks to pay the telephone and hydro bills and the balances owing on two credit cards.
Then I went downstairs and joined Gina before the news came on. Mary had already gone to bed. Gina had been watching an American channel. And so when the news came on it was the local news put out by the Burlington station. It was the lead item.
“Tragedy struck just outside Essex Junction earlier today.” The young blonde anchorwoman with an unusually high-pitched voice intoned. The visual image was unmistakable. It gave a full frontal view of Hendricks’ Pan-A-Bode cottage. The camera captured a covered body being carried out on a stretcher towards an ambulance. It was still not dark but all the lights on the ambulance were flashing. Any doubt I might have had about the identity of the body on the stretcher disappeared as the anchorwoman continued. “The dead body of Professor Harold Hendricks was discovered around six o’clock this evening by a neighbor who had heard a gun blast. Authorities for the moment are assuming it was a suicide.” The scene shifted to a burly sheriff in conversation with a reporter who seemed to be even younger than Gina. In a neutral voice the sheriff said, “he appears to have been alone, the front door was locked, we had to break in, and a suicide note was found on a table near the body. But we’re still investigating.” The image shifted to the reporter. “Police are attempting to identify two men and two women who were seen leaving the cottage earlier in the day. The victim was a Canadian engineering professor who taught at Winston University in Montreal. A short interview with a neighbor who was still dressed in the uniform of a customs officer followed. He was careful in what he said, refusing to acknowledge that he knew or had seen anything unusual recently in the behavior of his friend and neighbor. There was a flicker of a pause and then the anchorwoman went quickly on to another item. I pressed the mute button.
My forehead felt clammy. I knew the blood had drained from my face. I tried to take a deep breath. I turned towards Gina. Her face stared horrified at the muted, meaningless images still flickering on the screen.
“Holy Christ!” I muttered.
Gina gulped for air and fled to the kitchen. I heard her vomiting. I followed her into the kitchen.
“I need some towels,” she said in a hoarse whisper. She turned on the cold water tap and splashed water on her face.
“I’ll get some.” I felt like a psychological zombie. I rushed to the linen closet and came back loaded with face cloths and three large fluffy towels.
“Why?” She asked finally, her voice muffled by a thick towel. “Why would he do that?”
I just shook my head in bewilderment. All I could think of was his look of disappointment just before he closed his door and locked it, possibly for the last time, behind him. I had to fight the bile in my throat.
The phone rang with a grating ring. I hesitated then answered it after the second ring.
“Mr. Thomas Webster?”
“Yes.” It was a strong voice, one that I had just heard on the news. I held the receiver away from my ear so that Gina could also hear him. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that Mary had just come down the stairs and was moving towards Gina.
“Sheriff Wayman of Essex County. Are you acquainted with a Harold Hendricks?”
“Yes.” Before he could say anything else, I said, “I’ve just seen the newscast.”
“Yes, well, that should save us both some time. Were you, by any chance, part of the group that visited Mr. Hendricks late this morning?”
“Yes I was.”
“Ah, good! Any possibility that you could come down here tomorrow? There are reasons why we need to talk to you. Mr. Hendricks left an envelo
pe for you.”
I wondered for a moment whether I had heard right. An envelope? I decided to keep my confusion to myself. “Around what time tomorrow?”
“How about noon?”
“Okay.” I said in a dazed voice.
He gave me the address of his office. Then the line went dead. I looked around. Mary had her arms around Gina. “I’ll come with you,” she said. I nodded gratefully.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Mary and I parked outside the Sheriff’s office in Essex County. We were five minutes early. We took the time to try to compose ourselves. Since we had first become aware of Hendricks’ suicide, none of us had dared broach an obvious question: was his suicide an admission of guilt?
Would his note to me contain something which would allow us to close down our investigation? Or would it only further compound our problems? Earlier that morning I had spoken to Ryan. He was anything but his usual ebullient self. I also put a courtesy call through to Joe Gibbs. I succeeded only in reaching his answering service where I left a short message about the suicide of Professor Hendricks. After a moment’s hesitation I also called Mel Vogel at his home. I briefed him on the latest developments. When he asked me to file a story, I told him that I was an implicated party, particularly since I had visited Hendricks at his cottage just prior to his death. In fact, I told him, I may have been the last person to see him alive. I asked Mel to assign someone else and if possible to keep my name out of the story for as long as possible. I explained to him that becoming myself the focus of media attention would only impede my work on what was a much bigger story. He did not argue with me, but I knew I was dealing with a disgruntled managing editor.
“I think it’s time to go in,” Mary said. I nodded. We got out of the car and headed across the street to the modern two-story building that now housed the local court, the Essex police department and what I presumed were three or four detention cells.